Saturday, 20 December 2014

A nation which you have not known shall eat up the fruit
of your ground and of all your labours; and you shall be only oppressed and
crushed continually; so that you shall be driven mad by the sight which your eyes
shall see.

Deuteronomy 28:33

All your things will lose their meaning.

Jean Raspail, The Camp of the Saints

If traveller and writer Jean Raspail had written The
Camp of the Saints, his novel of mass ethnic migration by sea, ten years
ago, it would have been prophetic. Now we are used to regular tragedies
involving sunken migrant boats, and Lampedusa is no longer known as an island
resort but as the European entry point of choice for many tens of thousands of
illegal mariners, Raspail would have seemed a prophet had The Camp of the
Saints been written at the turn of the millennium. It was not; it was
written in 1973.

Although over four decades old, The Camp of the Saints
is set in the near future and, to read this strange artefact, we may easily
assume that we now inhabit its timeframe. The difference is that our arrivistes,
for the most part, have no need of the rusting flotillas of the book to
establish their beach-heads in the West; our elites are all too happy to lay on
transport as well as accommodation.

The plot is simple but enthralling. Almost a million
Hindu refugees set sail from the Ganges delta
in a fleet of 99 boats – the ‘Last Chance Armada’ – and make for the Western
lands of what they hope will be milk and honey. As they approach the West, the
traditional institutions of state, military and church, as well as an upstart
media, work themselves up into paroxysms of justification and exaggerated
rituals of welcome for this exodus of the disenfranchised. There are dissenting
voices, but they are silenced by a mixture of peer pressure and fear of seeming
racist. Sound familiar?

I won’t throw out any spoilers, because I think this book
should become widely read as an accurate prediction of the reaction of the
Western elites to the current influx of cultural difference, our importation of
the radically Other. But a day after the headline in The Times reads
‘Migrant controls in chaos’, the book ought to be included on the reading list
– if there is such a thing – of everyone involved in the machinations of the UK
Home Office.

The novel is championed by anti-jihadist website Gates
of Vienna and the impression I had formed before reading it was of a dour,
prophetic tome. Not so. The Camp of the Saints is a highly comic novel.
The ideological buffoonery and blustering cognitive dissonance make for
laughter in the dark, certainly, and this is what gives the book its relevance
to our current plight, but there are delightful vignettes amid the absurdity:

‘And speaking of clowns... That airplane, covered with
painted flowers and Hindu sayings, like a neighbourhood hippie’s cheap little
buggy! A twin-engine rig, flown in by an English singing group...’

This could almost be prime-time Waugh or Burgess. Never
has the decline of the West been so amusing. But the laughter may be misplaced
whistling past the graveyard. Regardless of your political position, it must at
least be possible to question the wisdom of a fast-track importation of
cultures inimical to that of the host West, such as that culture is. And yet, to
question anything to do with the multiculturalist aspirations of the elites is
to risk pariah status and worse. Witness the Netherlands, whose judicial system
is working overtime to try to make a bona fide political prisoner of elected
politician Geert Wilders for the post-modern equivalent of heresy.

De facto, there is an occupation of the northern
hemisphere by the southern. ‘Occupation’ is a word with many shades of meaning;
military, spatial, temporal. Some more militant incoming members of La Raza in
America
openly refer to their demographic shift in time and space as ‘reconquista’, an
emotive word in these times. It is no longer possible not to believe that
social engineering on a geopolitical scale is in place. We as a culture may
have forgotten religion, but we have not rid ourselves of its more morbid
habits; persecution, censorship, the flames. We shall see, as my immigrant
Serbian friend wisely says, what happens.

There is a moving coda to The Camp of the Saints. We,
the progressive, enlightened, post-racial colonised, have been warned off
discussion of immigration and informed in no uncertain terms that it is good
for us, essential to our ailing economies, the answer to the problems of a
greying population with no young people to do the hard work. Of course, as
Takuan Seiyo points out in From Meccania to Atlantis, this is to assume
that

‘[S]ub-literate, sub-90 IQ “youth” from white-despising
cultures could or would bail out in the next 20 years a generation of spoiled
white geezers.’

But, as noted, we have been warned off dissent concerning
our versions of the Last Chance Armada and its dubious benefits. I hope our
leaders and betters are right, and that racism is a bad thing in and of itself
rather than an instinctive reaction to the arrival of an other which, like
vampires, must be invited in but, once inside, can never be cast out. Raspail;

‘The most I can expect is that, some day, my
grandchildren may read my words without too much disgust that my blood runs
through their veins. Besides, how much will they even understand? Will the word
racism have any meaning for them at all? Even in my day the meaning has
changed. What I always understood to be a simple expression of the races’
inability to get along together has become for my contemporaries – or most of
them, I daresay – a war cry, a call to arms, a crime against humanity and the
dignity of man. Too bad. Let them understand the word as the best they can.’

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

How
has it come about that so many people have adopted this strange attitude of
hostility to civilisation?

Sigmund
Freud, Civilisation and its Discontents

I
call an animal, a species, an individual corrupt, when it loses its instincts,
when it prefers what is injurious to it.

Friedrich
Nietzsche, The Antichrist(ian)

Everyone knows the quote,
whether or not it was ever actually spoken. Those whom Guillaume Faye describes
as ethnomasochists, Westerners who hate themselves and their ilk and their
achievements, repeat it with relish. When allegedly asked by a journalist what
he thought of Western civilisation, Mahatma Gandhi supposedly replied; “I think
it would be a good idea”. Whether or not this spindly icon of the disenfranchised
ever actually mouthed these words or not, they are better known than a far more
verifiable aside from Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of
post-colonial India. “It takes a lot of money,” he said, “to keep Gandhi in
poverty.”

‘Civilisation’ has as its
Latin root civitas, the body of
citizens comprising a state, usually a city-state of the type hypothesised by
Plato in the famous Republic. The
word already implies a measure of social cohesion, co-operation and mutual
facilitation towards a greater goal, the well-being of the populace, the good
city. It isn’t that Gandhi’s peasant, idiot
savant witticism was wrong but, as Hamlet says, the time is out of joint.
It isn’t that civilisation would be a
good idea; it’s that it was a good
idea.

The civilisations men – all
those despised dead white males - have built, the ones they have aimed to build
and failed, Plato’s res publica, the
public entity, Augustine’s civitas dei, the
city of God here on earth, the civitas
solis of the alchemists, the city of the sun, splendour and magic. And look
at the worthless tenement we ended up with, all iPhones and The Great British Bake Off and Nelson
Mandela. Civilisation doesn’t require a meditative stroll through a Renaissance
art gallery while quoting Dante and Kant. That is a part of it, but not the sine qua non. Civilisation is rather the
hundred daily kindnesses observable even in our rather unpleasant cities. As we
import cultures, from Mohammedanism through crony capitalism to rap, these kindnesses
will become vestigial, an antiquarian curiosity. It won’t do.

It won’t do and it won’t
last. The barbarians are not at the gates; they are inside the city walls. We
should have listened to the – appropriately enough – Arabic proverb; rather a thousand enemies outside the house
than one inside. But we don’t even know who our enemies are. We have the
pale, flabby courtiers of the Western media telling us, commanding us to
believe, that our enemies have names like ISIS, UKIP, Vladimir Putin, when
their names are Herman van Rumpoy, David Cameron, Barack Hussein Obama…

The writing is on the wall
for Western civilisation, certainly in the incarnation of its historically
dominant white ethny. Our time, the time of the white man and woman, is over
now. As a good friend of mine says; it’s someone else’s go on the pool table.
Fine. Let’s hand history over to Islam, or blacks, or China. Let’s
give it a hundred years or so, and see how it rolls.

I won’t be around, of course.
Good, says the Lefty. You are a slaver, a dominator, a hegemon. But we will not
go away. Simply put, we will hide. And, when the ensuing chaos, a chaos which
we cannot now escape, gives a moment of respite, we will re-emerge. Leonard
Cohen’s version of The Partisan; Then we’ll
come from the shadows…

You’ll be aware of the
Hollywood genre movie in which the moneyed, suburban family man is suddenly
cast out into the jungle, or urban wasteland, or sinister conspiracy, and has
to fight for his life, discovering a new skill set he didn’t know he had but
was there all along, buried in the atavistic depths waiting for an opportunity
to be called on. This shooting script – and there is a lot of shooting coming
up – is what the West needs now. Gandhi and his state-supported, indentured
kind may think Western civilisation would be a good idea, but those days are
gone with the Raj. What is needed now – and what the West is going to get
whether it wants it or not, like bitter medicine spooned into a bawling child’s
mouth – is de-civilisation.

We need to go backwards for a
while. Pity the young Western boy or girl. Brought up to think they can all be
models, or footballers, or rap stars. No, kids. You’ll be lucky to be stacking
shelves in Tesco.

We had everything, we have
everything, but we gave it away, are giving it away, thanks to the traitors who
sit in our marbled halls of power. Intellectual or shop-worker, banker or
rough-sleeper, journalist or junkie, it’s coming your way. How will you deal
with the coming collapse? Will you run or hide, or will you stand up and be
counted? Will you face our Western fate like a man, or like a diversity officer
in an NHS trust? We’ll see.

Civilisation, in my belief,
is fast approaching the equivalent of the Brechtian penultimate scene in
Scorsese’s Goodfellas, in which the Mafioso Henry Hill – a real character;
see the book Wiseguys - steps down
from the dock to recount the violent yet successful history of the mob before
its inevitable decline. Addressing the camera, actor Ray Liotta says,

“We had it all. And now it’s
all over.”

I may be wrong. I hope I am.
I have a vested interest in being wrong, after all. I have a little niece, who
I adore, and some of you reading this have kids. Good Lord. What will they
become? What will they see? But I think civilisation is over, for the time
being, being and time. The reason? It is far better expressed by Henry Rollins,
rocker and general hard-nut, than that old fraud Gandhi: